


Longest Night

by lionsenpai



Category: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/F, I Was Going To Rate This Teen But Then Ridiculous Amounts Of Gore, Like Gore Everywhere, Really Gorey, Supernatural Elements, That's The Kind Of Gore We're Talking About Here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 21:02:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2323079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionsenpai/pseuds/lionsenpai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven nights after Ser Drus from Aldsea arrives, you are sure you're going to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Longest Night

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to Freestylesmiles for reading this over and keeping me on my toes (as well as inspiring me to pick this piece back up again in the first place) and also to Crossrage, for reading along and encouraging me to keep writing. They're both fantastic and the reason this is even here at all.

It isn’t often you make the trip into the walls of Bodhum.

Neither of you like doing it much, but you need salt and extra food for your reserves, so you float from vendor to vendor in the shadow of the great stone keep, passing eyes over the goods with faint interest. The hold isn’t very big, and that makes it easier on both of you; less space within the walls means less people, and neither of you like the crowds of bigger holds. Too much talk. Too little privacy.   
  
Today, the people are nearly buzzing with gossip, loose lips telling anyone who will listen how there’s been a killing two nights prior. Dangerous times, they say, whispering among one another as they go about their business. Thank the gods for the walls.

“Are they still talking about that kid?” Fang pulls the furs up around her neck and looks away from the two women at another stall. She’s stiff, and her lips are pressed in a thin line.

You look over the salted meats put on display by a very mediocre hunter from the poorer part of the hold. He advertises the best quail in Bodhum, but Fang brings back better specimen even on her bad days. You turn a piece over in your hands, and on the back there are marks from where the man’s dogs retrieved it. You set the piece down in time to see Fang spit.

“You know they’ll talk, Fang,” you tell her, moving on to the next stall. She follows behind you, gruff beneath all her wool and skins. Among the common folk of Bodhum, she stands out dressed in pelts, but she’s of the woods, and she won’t settle for wool and leather when her furs keep the chill out just as well.  

“Yeah, but that was a _bear_ ,” she protests. She’d been the one to find the boy and bring his broken body back to the hold. “You could tell from the tracks. _And_ there’s been sightings in that part of the wood recently.”

“You’re right,” you say, looking over the slim pickings for something to take back home with you. The smell of rabbit is drifting through the air, and there are men roasting it over an open flame not far away, but not even that makes you want cuts like these.

“They’re saying it was a wolf,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

Over the buzz of the stalls, the tale of the boy with his guts ripped out, and the calls of merchants selling their wares, you hear a great commotion coming your way. Horses, you think, but you turn your gaze on Fang instead.

Her arms are crossed, and she’s looking at you expectantly, her jaw tight. There’s tension in her shoulders, and she’s gripping her arms hard enough to turn her knuckles white.

“Fang,” you say softly. “You know it wasn’t--”

“--Ser Drus of Aldsea!” A woman runs between the two of you, holding onto a tall, lanky man. “He’s supposed to be the best hunter to have lived in centuries,” she says, grinning and laughing. “And he’s _here_!”

Fang and you exchange looks after the two pass, and you reach out to take her by the wrist, but she turns and says, “Best hunter my arse. Them from Aldsea never could tell one end of a pike from another.” She looks over her shoulder at you and tells you, “Come on, Lightning. I’ll go out tonight and get something. All of this here’s not worth a thing.”

“Fang,” you start, but the crowds have thickened, closing in on the two of you as a procession of horses go trotting by, tossing their heads and whickering gently.

Everyone stops to watch the eight men and women mounted on well-bred blood bays except Fang, who muscles her way through the gaping people. She keeps walking, her shoulder bunched up and her eyes straight ahead. She never so much as looks at the greatest hunter of your time.

You do catch a glimpse.

“There, at the front! Ser Drus!” someone calls, and a woman with freckles and curly red hair pushes into you, trying to get a better look.

He’s at the head of a file, with Aldsea’s silver trout on a red backing over a dusty leather brigandine. He’s older than you, but not by much, and from what little you can see of him, he is grizzled and no stranger to the hunt. There is a long scar torn down the line of his jaw on the right side, and his armor, made of leather and steel and furs, is well worn. He’s got a head of shaggy black hair, and more growing in all along his jaw. His smile is charming, and he turns it on everyone he passes.

He even smiles at you, and the sight of it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. It’s like gazing into the mouth of a shadowcat, fanged and dangerous. You look away quickly and turn to follow Fang.

You don’t know what his cause for being here is--this dinky, backwater hold doesn’t compare to the riches of Aldsea--but you hope he continues on his way quickly. There is something disquieting about his presence, in his smile.

*

Three days later you see Ser Drus of Aldsea again.

Your forge is hot with steel today, a dagger to replace one of the guardsman’s up in the hold. He came to you yesterday with a sheepish expression, a small sack of coppers, and a few lumps of iron. He had half a heel of bread, intent to watch you work, but he’d finished that and all of his wineskin before he realized smithing was no task for the impatient. He waved goodbye and saw himself off after you’d barely finished smelting the ore into steel for use.

You are bent in front of it, so close the flames dry your skin and eyes even while you sweat enough to dampen the whole of your tunic, but when you pull back to give the metal a few swings of your hammer, you see him approaching along the north road. He still wears his bright red doublet, the silver fish of Aldsea emblazoned on its front.

You watch him and the small band at his back as they wind down the road toward your home. He’s brought a portion of his garrison, it seems, and every single one of them is mounted on blood bays.

Ser Drus waves to you when he sees you looking, and you eye him and his men another second before beating a dent from the molten steel and dropping it into a pail of water. It steams and hisses, but you set down your hammer and tongs and turn toward the convoy, huffing with exhaustion.

They move slowly, unhurried, but the moment they veer off the road, the dogs began to howl and snarl. Ser Drus looks at them as his horse trots by, and he smiles even when his bay begins to nicker nervously. They round the fence, and once he’s full in front of you, he swings down from his horse; his men do the same.

“M’lady,” he greets, giving a small bow and smiling up at you. “May I request an audience?”

There’s a morning star on his hip, and a quarter dozen men at his back, all shifting from foot to foot, scanning the house, the pens, the horizon. Two carry swords, one a pike, and all of them are dressed in steel and furs and boiled leather.

You motion to the rest of them, saying, “I suppose they want one too.”

The commander in red straightens from his bow and looks over his shoulder, dismissing the men and horses with a wave of his hand. “Not at all, m’lady. They are only escorts, insurance that I make it from the hold to your humble abode and back. Times are dangerous now, haven’t you heard? Ah, but they’ve no place in _business_. They will wait outside.”

He’s eloquent and speaks without hesitation, and his eyes never leave you.

You wipe your gloves on your apron and then dab at the sweat on your brow with the back of your arm. “Weapons wait outside too. House rule,” you tell him, eyeing his steel.

“Of course, of course,” he tells you, calling over one of his men and leaving it in their hands. The morning star catches in the light unlike steel, and you let your gaze linger a moment.

“Fine craftsmanship, isn’t it?” he asks, noticing.

“Is it new?” you ask. There are chips taken from the edge of the spikes and some are bent, but the metal shines like new.

“Hardly,” he tells you, dismissing his guard. “But it’s served me well enough. I’m here for another item.

You cast a final glance at the morning star, tucked beneath a pelt on the waist of the guardsman, and then turn toward the house. “What do you want made?” you ask, showing him inside and setting him down at the table near the door.

He looks around, eyeing the skins on the walls, the set of antlers above the fireplace, the scratches in the floorboards from the dogs. In the corner, he finds the trapdoor leading beneath the house, a speck of steel in a house of wood, and you sit stiffly. Once he’s looked his fill, he settles his gaze back on you. He’s smiling still. “Nothing big. Just a trinket, really. A girl’s caught my eye across the ridge, and business takes me there once I’ve had my fill of your lovely hold. I wanted something to bring her when I return, and I heard you were undoubtedly the woman to see about it.”

“Give me the materials, and I’ll smith it,” you agree.

“Yes, they talk very highly of you in town, m’lady. One woman showed me a blade you crafted three seasons ago, and it’s edge was sharp as death,” he tells you and runs his fingers through the air like he’s testing the edge again. He stops midway, however, and draws back on himself, laughing under his breath. “But is it true what they say? Even in this time of peril, you live beyond the walls? Surely such an accomplished blacksmith has one home in the field and another where it is safe?”

He’s eyeing you now, taking you in with the same interest he displayed upon first seating himself. It digs at you a little because you’re not sure what you’ve done to get that sort of full focus attention. You wipe at the back of your neck.

“Bandits come and go,” you tell him hesitantly. “They try to sack the place, the dogs tear them up. They get in, I cut them up. Nothing big in this area, so they’re the most I usually have to worry about.”

His eyes gleam. He leans forward in his chair, and you can smell pine and burnt fat even over the fumes sticking to you from the forge. He’s been off the roads.

“But m’lady,” he tells you, “Haven’t you _heard_?”

You don’t answer, mostly because you don’t know what he’s talking about and some because he’s too close for you to think about anything other than the jagged line running down the side of his face, the black stubble coming in around the scar.

He takes your silence for a no, and continues on after a moment. “There has been talk,” he starts, smiling more than ever. “People turning up missing, dead. Big game found torn open and left for the birds. Some report there are wolves howling at night, right outside the walls, but the guard never finds anything out of the ordinary.” He pauses. “A little boy was mauled, they say, but the guard called it a wolf and didn’t even hunt the beast.”

You feel it again, that little dig. It hits you right at the base of your spine, makes you shift in your seat. He follows your every movement, watchful like a hawk and still so, so close. He may just be talking--people always talk--but there’s something in the way he stares you down that screams intent.

You try not to notice in hopes he won’t do likewise for the hairs raised on your arms.

“Dogs howl. Animals hunt. If the guard says nothing’s wrong, I’d weigh their say more than the talk of the common folk,” you say, shrugging him off.

“And the people?” he asks, not missing a beat.

You stop, pause, _think_. He doesn’t blink, still smiling at you across the table. Finally, you say, “I couldn’t say, ser.”

He leans back into his seat, palms flat against the tabletop, and nods his head toward you. “Bandits may not trouble you, m’lady, but if something _bigger_ were to appear...” He shudders. “I worry for how safe you truly are out here.”

“I’ve always done fine before,” you manage.

“Then I hope your luck continues, m’lady,” he says, reaching into the satchel hanging over one shoulder. “Here, let me trouble you no more with the gossip of the day. I’ve still got a request of you.”

He pulls a bar of some metal from the bag, and places it carefully on the table between you. It’s too fine to be steel, and the way it gleams reminds you of his morningstar. You recognize the ingot half a second later, and suddenly the intent is plain to see. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end now, prickled right along with the rest of you.

“Silver,” you say.

He hums and nods, and now you know his game. “Fine silver, too, m’lady. Here, feel its weight. Run your fingers over it--you’ll find no blemishes. Not with your gloves, of course. Take those off! For metal this pure, you must really _feel_ it.”

You push the ingot back towards him. “I don’t work with silver.”

He frowns, but insists, “Just a necklace, m’lady. Just a simple necklace. You’ll be well compensated, I assure you.”

You rise from your seat, pick up the ingot in your gloved hands, and drop it into his lap. “I don’t work with silver,” you repeat. “And it’s getting late. You ought to get back to the hold.” You narrow your eyes and place a hand on the back of his chair.

“If I have offended--”

“You said it yourself, ser. It’s dangerous beyond the walls.”

He stops at that, and then his lips curl into a grin. He returns the silver to his bag and then runs a hand through his short black hair. “Very true, m’lady. I think I will take my leave.”

You step back, stare him down as he rises and moves to the door. He opens it, and a gust of air blows in, smelling like pine and smelting and the fast approaching dusk. He pauses and turns over his shoulder, giving you a quick nod and telling you, “I do hope you’ll take care, m’lady. There’s too few smiths these days to lose such a talent.” And then he steps out, closing the door behind him softly.

You keep watching him from the windows. He meets with his men, shares a word, and then the four of them mount and start off, heading south-- _away_ from the hold. You stare until the horizon has eclipsed what was left of the sun and the moon rises high into the sky. Then, under the light of the near full moon, you douse the forge and bring the dagger you were working on inside, giving the dogs full reign of the yard for the night.

Back inside, you lock the door, lower the heavy bar, and close the windows. It’s dark, save for the flame of a candle. You change into a tunic of mail and slide heavy gauntlets onto your hands. Then you sit in the den, your sword laid across your thighs, your eyes on the door, and wait.

The candle burns down until there’s only the smallest portion of wicker left before the dogs begin howling.

You rise, stand before the door, and squeeze the hilt of your sword. Sweat collects on your brow, and you’re breathing hard already. You’ve moved the furniture away from the door so there is nothing to stop your swing. Your bow hangs over your shoulder, a quiver on your back. If it comes down to it, you’re faster. You can duck out of one of the windows, and then you’ll pick them off, one by one.

There’s a knock, and your hand twitches, jitters running from one finger to the next.

“Who’s there?” you call out, voice solid despite the thrumming of your heart.

The dogs keep barking, and the whole house creaks. You’re breathing in and out, in and out. Let them in and then _thrust_. One down. You can do this.

“Who do you bloody think it is?”

All the air leaves you in a single, long breath. You lurch forward, pull the bar from the door and swing it open, nearly hitting Fang right in the face.

In the light of the moon, she’s as beautiful as ever. She’s got furs wrapped around her neck and waist, and a piece of hard boiled leather over a tan doublet. Her hair’s pulled up, and there is blood spattered on her boots and trousers. In one hand she carries a pike, the other has a heavy gauntlet of skins and iron. From the pike, two rabbits and a quail hang by strips of leather.

The dogs both run in at her feet, yapping happily and trotting to the bedchamber.

“Get inside, you damned idiot.” You grasp her by the arm and pull her in, closing and locking the door behind her.

“I know I’m back early, but no need to get your knickers in a twist--” She stops when she sees the sword in your hand, the mail across your chest. She studies you one long moment and then asks, “Gods, Lightning, what the hell are you doing?”

You grit your teeth and sheathe your sword. “They’re _hunting_ , Fang.”

The fires plays at the confusion across her face, flickering faintly in the darkness. “What?” she asks. Her spear is firm in her hand, and she’s looking past you to the room, so open with all the furniture pushed to one side. “Who?” she asks, looking back to you.

“Those men. The armored ones that came into town last week. From _Aldsea_ ,” you tell her. You’re talking fast, but you’re sure they’ll be upon you soon. “They came here today, Fang. They’re going to be back. Their commander, he _knows_.”

“They came _here_?” she asks, anger suddenly flaring on her face.

“Fang,” you say, trying to stop her.

“Oh, let them come back. They’ll be leaving without their heads, I promise you that. Fucking coming _here_ \--” She stops suddenly and then looks at you hard. She’s gone so tense, she’s bristling even in the dark. “Did they touch you? How did they find out? I swear if they fucking touch--”

You grasp her by the front of her mantle and pull her down so she has to look at you. “Fang, _shut up_ ,” you hiss, deadly serious.

She closes her trap, but her teeth are grit tight together and her hands are fists.

“Four came today, but I know there are more. I don’t want you to honor me,” you tell her, darkly. “I want you to help me _kill them_.”

The candle is dying. It’s burnt long past its time, and now only the faintest ember remains. You look at Fang in the dying light, and she looks right back at you. The ember dies, and the two of you are swathed in darkness.

She nods, and tells you, “Okay.”

*

You wait for four days, Fang and you both.

You suffer through four nights without sleep and four days spent waiting for the inevitable. Both of you feel the strain, Fang more so than you. She’s getting itchier as the moon grows, but you’re just getting more intent. You know they’ll return, it’s just a matter of when.

But now the full moon is upon you, and you know it’s going to be now or never.

Fang helps you gather up the dogs and herds them into the shed. They’re already shifting and baring their teeth because they know what the full moon means, but you lock them in the shed and bolt the doors. It’s for their own safety, even if you’ll miss their help sorely when the night comes.

Then you dress in boiled leather with a tunic of mail, and shoulder your bow and a quiver of arrows. You’ve got your scimitar at your hip. Fang helps you strap heavy iron gauntlets over your forearms, and all the while she looks miserable and scared.

Both of you keep your eyes on the road, and neither of you can find it in you to eat a bite. The sun starts to dip when you move all the furniture from the living space to the bedroom and stack crude chairs and wobbly tables on the bed there. There’s still daylight left when you’ve finished that, and Fang suggests you snatch a few quick minutes of sleep while she keeps watch, but you can’t seem to drift off with your pulse drumming in your ears. Every few seconds you open your eyes because you’re sure you heard Fang call your name, but every time she’s intent on the window, her pike in hand and her features bunched up with murder.

Eventually you give up, and the two of you keep watch until the sun begins to drop, and you look over to her and tell her, “Come on. You need to get below ground.”

She’s gnawing on her lip, concern clear amongst the frustration, and she tells you, “You’re gonna be safe right?”

“I’ll be okay.”

“ _Lightning_ ,” she insists.

You take her by the arm and lead her to the cellar door. She’s tense and nearly trembling. You bend to work with the locks. They click at your persistance, and you heave the heavy iron door open. You set it against the wall, and say, “Go on, Fang.”

She’s left her pike leaning by the window, and in her hands are a small skin of wine and two candles. She’s going to be down there for some time.

Fang gnaws her lip again. She looks ready to explode for want of words she can’t seem to work from her throat. She fidgets where she stands, and she suddenly leans into you, but you stop her with a hand on her chest.

“Stay safe,” you tell her. She needs to hurry.

She stays planted a moment longer, looking at you longingly, and then turns away and starts down into the cellar. She drops the wineskin and candles, and you reach down to give her a flint. She grabs your wrist instead, and there are shadows played across her face. Somehow you see her like this a lot. It suits her.

“You stay safe too,” she says, squeezing your wrist and then taking the flint.

You give her until she lights the candles and then close the trapdoor over her, bolting it back. You stand and kick the rug over it, and then look around the empty room. It’s clear of everything but her pike and the rug tossed over the hatch. Beyond the walls, you know the dogs are locked away and can’t help you. You’re glad she isn’t there to see the grim face you’re making. Tonight is a bad night to be alone.

Dusk creeps over you slowly. You don’t light candles. Your eyes will adjust, and the sooner they do, the better. The hunters won’t bring candles or torches when they come, and if they do, they’re more the fools for it.

The dogs start howling before you hear Fang. There’s a choking sound from the cellar, a crack that you know is bone. You hear her drop to the ground. You hear her snarl and cough and _change_ , becoming the thing that stalks nightmares and makes its home in shadows. You’re shaking where you stand. There is sweat on your palms and across your brow. It’s hard to breathe. From somewhere below you, you hear Fang let out a long, angry howl. You close your eyes and pray no one comes tonight.

You pray for most of the night, listening to Fang pace and scratch and snarl beneath your feet. She snaps her teeth together and digs her claws into the walls, tearing away at the wooden boards and into the dirt behind. She launches herself up, slamming into the ceiling and making the whole house shake. After some time you think your prayers were answered. They won’t come tonight. You just need to still your trembling hands, calm your pounding heart. The morning will come, and Fang will be back, and the two of you will kill them if they ever bother you again.

But just before sunrise, just before relief, just as Fang is starting to go quiet, you hear them.

The windows are all closed and bolted, but you can hear the horses from where you are. There are ten of them, maybe more. You can’t tell. There’s fear and adrenaline rushing through your veins, and you can barely grasp your sword for all that both are doing to you.

There is a knock at the door. It’s polite. Cordial.

“M’lady,” Drus calls. “Might we have a word?”

You go to the door. You know what to do. Open the door. Thrust. The sound has roused Fang, who’s pacing beneath you again. You pull the bar from the door and lick your lips. You throw the door open, and in the light of the full moon, you see the flash of silver only seconds before you can lunge into a thrust.

There’s a chink of metal on metal and a hot swipe across your side. All the breath leaves you at once, and you sway away from the strike and press your hand against your side. You feel broken mail and split leather and a bubbling of warmth. Even in the darkness, when you look down you see the crimson color of blood.

In the doorway, the pike-bearer pulls back his thrust and grunts, “I thought you said she was wolf.”

Drus looks in through the darkness with the pale moonlight on his back. Over his shoulders, he wears the pelt of a fearsome creature. Its long arms hang down on either side of his neck, the claws still curved in and deadly sharp. Its head rests over his leather helm, massive jaws and dead, black eyes. If the life remained in it, it could swallow his head in one bite.You know that’s not just a wolf pelt he’s wearing.

His features pull up in frustration. “Does she look like a wolf to you?” he snaps, striding in and looking around.

“There is a werewolf,” he declares, looking at you and then knocking the sword from your shaking hand with a swing of his morningstar. He tugs the bow and quiver from your shoulder and tosses them across the room. “All of the signs point to it. The bodies, the sightings--it only makes sense the werewolf would live outside the walls, but close enough to tear open that boy.”

It occurs to you that they don’t know about Fang. You feel like you’ve just awoken from a long sleep, fully awake for the first time in days. You have to get them away from her.

You go for your sword, but the second you bend for it, the pike-bearer sets the edge of his spear to your arm. “You keep going like that and you’ll be short more than a sword,” he tells you, smirking.

Drus looks over his shoulder, over the dark fur of his trophy, and snuffs at you. “You are no wolf. It seems I was mistaken,” he tells you. “Please forgive me.”

“Get out,” you bite, straightening away from the point of the pike and pressing your back to the wall.

“A fair request,” he shrugs and goes for the door again. “It’s unfortunate that a smith of your caliber lives beyond the walls. A pity, truly.” He looks to the pike-bearer. “There is a wolf in these woods. Make it visit our unfortunate lady.”

You don’t feel the press of death. You see it in the pike-bearer’s thrusting arm, the way he tightens up in preparation for another strike, but you never feel it. All you feel is the smack of terror as Fang lets out a low growl and every man and woman with Drus stops to listen.

You count three seconds of silence and close your eyes, wanting nothing more than to sink to the ground.

He turns on you like a dawning, grinning like mad, and pushes the pike-bearer to the side. The wall is behind you, and he closes in on you from the front. The snout of the beast he slew mashes against your forehead when he leans down. “M’lady,” he says, taking ahold of your shoulder. “You didn’t tell me you had a _pet_.”

You are speechless. Your mouth has gone dry, and you can’t think of one thing to say to him. You just imagine Fang, harried and torn to pieces.

She snarls beneath you, and you know the commotion has only made her livid. Drus and his hunters look to the floorboards, and one woman with an axe mutters, “Damned thing is under us!”

Drus takes hold of your mail and pulls you off the wall. The jerking motion lights up your side, but you choke back the cry and try to pull away from him.

“I told you there was a wolf,” he says over his shoulder to his hunters. They file in one at a time, four with axes, two with swords, and the pike-bearer from before. “I _knew_ it,” he says, dragging you along behind him.

“You had a cellar, didn’t you, m’lady? Where was it again? Ah, there it is.” He kicks the rug away from the hatch, and throws you to the ground. Then he takes a few steps back and holds his morningstar. His hunters form up alongside him.

For half a second, you think about charging through them, or trying anyway. But then the pike-bearer settles behind you and presses the end of his pike to your back.

“If the lady would kindly open it,” Drus smiles pleasantly at you, and the pike-bearer gives you a sharp nudge.

Fang snaps her teeth together and scratches at the walls. She’s right beneath you. Now you feel death’s hold as you turn to the trapdoor and run your hand over the iron. It’s cold, but your blood runs colder still.

You flip the locks, and Fang snarls right beneath you. Your fingers tremble. You hesitate over the last lock, and there is bated silence below you. You can imagine her down there, crouched and waiting, barely breathing but so intent. When the door opens, she’ll leap out and smash your head against the floorboards. If you’re lucky, she might snap your neck between her jaws.

“Regretting your choice in pets now, _m’lady_?” Drus sneers behind you.

You press your hand to the side of your mail. It’s warm with blood. Sweat gathers along your brow and wets the back of your neck. The hunter to your rear drives the point of his spear into your back, and you lean forward, away from it.

“Let’s see the beast, then,” he tells you, his spear tip cutting you through the broken rings of mail.

You undo the last lock and grasp the handle. A growl sounds through the trapdoor. She’s going to jump, you know. She’s going to jump, and it won’t matter who you are or what you mean to her when she does. You’ll just be another body in her way, another slab of meat for her teeth and claws.

You can’t be the first thing she sees. If she sees you at all, you’ll die. You know all of this, and that’s why when you turn the handle and yank the door open, you lunge forward with it, pressing yourself tight against the wall.

It’s desperate. It _works_.

Fang leaps, a mass of shaggy black fur and the first thing in her way is the pike-bearer. She opens him gut to gullet with a single stroke of her claws, and he drops his pike and falls forward, his blood spraying across the floorboards. He doesn’t even have time to scream.

“Back! Get your space!” Drus hollers, but Fang’s arms and fingers are too long, and she has an ungodly reach. His hunters backstep, their silver held out and ready, but the one with the best chance of sticking her from afar is already lying in a puddle of his own blood, convulsing on the floor as he bleeds out.

So Fang gives a terrible snarl and swings her arm, the heavy blow catching one of the the swordswomen on the side of the head. There is a crack as she flips across the room, her head smacking hard against the floorboards. She groans, but the sound is drowned out when Fang tips her monstrous head back and lets out one long howl.

Drus makes for the door--he must realize staying inside is like lining up to be slaughtered. “Out!” he calls after he’s cleared the doorway, but his men are slower.

Before they can all pull back out of the confined space, Fang lunges forward, her teeth bared and dripping slather, and takes one of them by the neck. He screams, horrified, as she shakes him back and forth. There is a loud snap, and his screams stop abruptly; his body and head jerk and flail limply with every twist of Fang’s head. The blood spurts in sprays, covering everything.

After a moment she stops, drops the broken body of the man, and then bounds out the door after the other hunters, never once even noticing you pressed hard against the back wall of the room.

All you hear is the pounding of your own heart and the dying moans of the three Fang tore open. The room is empty save them and you, and you’re the only one not bleeding red across the floor. The woman is rolling around on the ground, groaning and sobbing, and it occurs to you all at once that if she rises, she’ll kill you.

You stumble to your feet and hurry to where she lies. She had a shortsword, but now it’s laid on the floor half a dozen paces away from her. You pick it up and come back. She looks up at you. The whites of her eyes have red bleeding into them, and when she opens her mouth to plead with you, there is blood staining her teeth.

You take the sword in both hands and drive it down into her skull. All at once she shudders and then goes limp. When you slide the sword back out of her head, there is blood and lymph smeared on the end.

The other two are in worse shape than she was. The pike-bearer is quieting, still face down in a puddle of his own blood. His spasms are weaker now, and he’s not gurgling quite so much anymore. He’ll be dead soon enough, so you don’t bother with him.

The other one is even worse off. He lays on the ground limply, his limbs splayed wide around his twisted body. He doesn’t shudder at all, and his eyes are crossed, his face frozen in an expression of fear. His head lolls off to the side, barely still connected to what remains of his neck. From the gnarled skin, a fleshy pipe hangs from the opening in his throat. You rub at your own neck, but pass him by as well.

You could have been among them. You could have just as easily been laid across the ground bleeding out. Worse yet, she could have stopped to open your gut, buried her face in your bowels, and eaten every bit of you.

From outside, she howls again, and you hear another screech, only it dies off much quicker than the last one. A shiver runs up your spine, and you think, gods, she’s going to kill every last one of them, and when she’s done, she’ll kill whatever else she can get her jaws around.

You know you need to hide. You need to go down into the cellar and wait for the sun. It won’t be long now, and you suspect that must have been intentional on Drus’s part. You know you need to, but you think about Drus and his morningstar that shined even with so much use and the pelt he wore around his shoulders, the way its black eyes did not so much as glimmer in the moonlight. You think about how many he must have killed, and you can’t bring yourself to climb the ladder down into the cellar to wait.

You shoulder your bow again, pick up the quiver of arrows dropped on the ground, and go to the door. _Stay safe_ , you told her when she descended down below. You only hope she has.

Outside, there are horses screaming and thrashing against the side of the house. Two of them are tied up, and two more lay on the ground with their guts pooling out of their opened sides. There are tracks, horse and beast alike, and in the distance you can see two more corpses, one human and one animal.

You don’t see Fang or the remaining hunters, but it would only be a matter of following the tracks to find them. You hesitate, and then go to the remaining horses.

They’re spooked by the smell of blood and beast, and you can barely calm them down enough to untie one and mount. Even then, the animal is so wild that it struggles and kicks under you, jarring your wound and making your vision swim, and it takes a few long moments to reign it in and turn it to the tracks.

“Right,” you say and give it a kick to set it off into a gallop.

At first, you’re certain they’re headed for the hold. The tracks go right up the road toward Bodhum, but veer off into the woodline quick enough.

You hesitate at the sight, your horse jittery beneath you, but you hear the scream of another hunter, and you set your heels to your horse and push through the brush, your bow rattling against your back. The sky is violet, but the woods are dark, and you can’t see the tracks anymore. Even so, the snap of wood and the dying moans of Fang’s most recent victim urge you on.

Time passes by the beat of your heart, nearly thunderous in your ears, and it takes you nearly an eternity to find the man Fang butchered, his back laid open and seeping lifeblood. He looks up at you, eyes glassy in the first rays of light, and begs you, “Mercy, please.”

You pull off your bow and sink an arrow into his skull instead.

The crash of brush nearly makes your horse bolt, but you reign it in and steer it on, the lightening sky turning your guts to snakes, twisting and roiling. There’s a long, mournful howl, and then a shout which sounds nothing like a dying man.

“Here Drus!” she calls, and you push your horse to a charge to reach her.

The trees turn dawn’s light into a gloom, but you catch sight of a blood bay, its rider sitting with her bow drawn, reaching for an arrow. On the ground, twisted into a shape still more beast than man, lies Fang, clumps of fur falling out, whining pitifully as the change overcomes her. She writhes, half an arrow shaft buried deep in her chest, while the woman hollers for Drus, for the greatest hunter of your age. She looks down on Fang and yells for the kill.

“I found it! It’s here, Drus--”

Your arrow explodes from her shoulder, and she’s startled enough that the blow nearly unseats her, her horse tossing its head beneath her, nostrils flaring at the smell of blood. By the time she grabs the reins and looks up, another arrow finds its mark in the hollow of her neck.

This time she does fall from her horse, and when she hits the ground, clutching at her neck, her bow forgotten, her horse spooks and kicks, darting between trees to escape.

Your horse tramples over her body, and now you can hear Fang gasping and moaning, the crack of her bones as they realign in the light of the dawn. She rolls onto her shoulder and then cries out, her body slick with sweat and blood alike.

“Fang,” you say, sliding off your horse before you can think better of it.

Your feet hit the ground and you have to grasp at your side and still, taking long, slow breaths until your vision stops swimming. Your horse bolts as soon as you’re off it, but you just stagger forward to Fang, who has patches of black fur still clinging to her and drying blood down her mouth and throat. It wells up around the arrow shaft as well, and you press your hands down on her shoulder.

“Fang, it’s alright,” you mutter, setting down your bow and cupping the side of her face in your hand. Her lips part like she wants to speak, but her eyes are still hazy and lost and no words come. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Her nails shrink back and she sheds the last of her fur, and you sit with her, applying pressure to her shoulder and keeping her still as the last of the changes wrack through her body.

“Clara?”

You jolt, reaching for your bow and turning on the voice as Drus’s blood bay stomps through the brush, shying at the scents of beast and death. You’re on your knees, nearly hidden among the bushes and wildflowers, but you can see the dark fur of his pelt atop his head, its black eyes like obsidian in the light of day. He looks right over you, and curses, turning his horse away.

You count seconds in your mind, your pulse pounding in your ears, but before you can even get to twenty, his horse stops and he swings down off his horse. He disappears into a circle of leafy brush, but when you lean forward and press your cheek to the dirt, you can see his boots--and the corpse of the woman you slew.

You sit upright and carefully reach for an arrow.

“M’lady?” Drus calls, his leathers rustling as he moves among the leaves.

You take a breath, set your arrow, and jump to your feet, pulling and--

Drus’s morningstar smashes against your hand, snapping bones and bow alike with a single swing. You recoil with a cry and clutch your broken hand close to your chest, looking up just in time to see Drus push you aside, his face twisted into a smile.

“M’lady,” he says. “You should have counted yourself lucky your pet didn’t gut you and _stayed home_.”

Tears well in your eyes and you curl in on yourself, forehead pressed to the dirt, teeth clenched against the pain throbbing through you, your arrows tumbling out into the dirt around you. Blood pools between your broken fingers, and you shudder, thinking, _I’ll never hold a hammer again_. It’s too much. So many nights where Fang changed, and not a thing went wrong. Now, it’s hunters that will be the end of you.

You steal a look at Drus even with tears clouding your vision. He’s forgotten you, his morningstar dripping with your blood, his back to you, but he can’t seem to look away from Fang, who groans and tries to sit up.

“Lightning,” she mumbles, but he stomps her back into the dirt, sneering.

“Stay down, dear. It will make the strike cleaner,” he cooes, clicking his tongue. “If only you’d been more agreeable earlier! Your pelt would have made a gorgeous cloak. This one is so old now.”

Playing with his grip, he slides his heel along her skin until its pressed into her throat. Fang grabs weakly at the leather of his boot, but the change has taken much from her, and she can’t do more than gasp and tremble.

_He’s going to kill her_ , you think, sobbing.

You struggle to raise your head, biting your lip against shuddering breaths, and reach for something, _anything_ with your good hand. You grasp the thin shaft of an arrow, glancing at it for only a second before lurching to your feet, staggering into a lunge, the arrow tight in your hand. It pierces him between the ribs, and he chokes, stumbling a little, but when you can’t get it all the way through, you push up against the shaft with your body, holding back cries for your hand, mangled and crushed between you.

“You--” he gurgles, morningstar falling from his hand as he reaches up to stop the arrow from pushing through to his front.

You can feel it reach when the resistance disappears and you feel the blood flow hot and sticky down the shaft. He tips his head back and groans, his knees going weak, but you just push him forward, let _him_ curl in on himself as his lifeblood stains his old, dark pelt, his gorgeous Aldsea doublet.

You bend and pick up his morningstar, stepping over Fang to reach him. The weight is unfamiliar, but his eyes nearly roll back at the sight of you, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth.

“Please,” he whispers.

“Go to hell,” you say and bring the morningstar down on his head.

Ser Drus’s scarred, predatory face caves in with a crunch, and he spasms for half a second before going still. The greatest hunter of your time will rot among the trees, his legend dying out with him. He’ll become meals for wolves and carrion crows, and no one will whisper another word of Ser Drus of Aldsea.

Dropping the morningstar and turning from him, you cradle your hand against your chest and fall to your knees beside Fang, who has tried rising again.

She’s still bleeding, but her eyes are more focused now, cuts of jade in the early morning light. She clutches at her shoulder absently, her eyes tracking your every move, and when you lean into her, all your strength flowing from the cut to your side, the ruin of your hand, she reaches up to touch your arm, hesitant.

“Lightning,” she whispers.

You press your face into her hair, head throbbing, and beg, “ _Please._ ”

She doesn’t ask what, but slides her hand to the back of your neck, holding you gently. You sit with her there--she naked and covered in blood, you breathing hard and gritting your teeth against the pain--while the sun rises, the forest coming alive with the sounds of birds and insects. Your horse comes wandering back, skittish around so many bodies but unsure of where else to go.

Fang’s skin raises with goosebumps, but she doesn’t complain, leaning into you too and not making a move.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes finally.

“I know,” you tell her.

When you pull back, her face is paler than before, the arrow through her shoulder still trickling blood, but she’s _alive_ and nothing else matters.

She can’t meet your gaze, so she looks down instead, inhaling sharply at the sight of your twisted fingers still trembling softly. Fang nearly chokes, but you touch her jaw, turning her so you can bring your foreheads together. You inhale, and all you smell is pine.

“It’s okay. We made it, Fang,” you say.

Her lips tremble, eyes glassy with wetness, but she nods gently, fingers clutching at the back of your neck.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles again, closing her eyes.

“It’s okay,” you repeat, leaning in to kiss your lips to hers softly, briefly.

She tastes like blood and despair, but you linger just long enough for her to know that nothing has changed. You’ve shed blood, sweat, and tears for her tonight, and you’d do it all again if needed, every time, again and again.

“I love you,” you tell her, but her words have abandoned her, and your head swims too much to say more.

Instead, she sniffs and tries to hold back her sobs, turning away to gather herself before pulling away completely. You sway without her there, but she rises to her feet, unsteady and wiping at her face. Then she teeters away, and you lie back on the ground, breathing slowly, while she rustles through the brush.

When she returns, you look at her from the corners of your eyes, not moving a bit. She’s wrapped in the woman’s crimson cloak, leading Drus’s horse behind her.

She tells you, “I’m getting you home.”

You can’t help but smile at the thought of home, and so you let her help you to your feet, the both of you weak and dizzy. Together, you manage to mount up and set off for home, the gentle sway of the ride making you lean back into her, eyelids heavy. She presses her lips to the crown of your head and whispers, “I love you too.”

 


End file.
